To Those Who Come After
by Michelle Smith
Summary: Modern-day Watson meets modern-day Holmes. Telepathy, witchcraft, and mystery. Part Six up!
1. The Prologue

= Part One:  The Prologue =

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Rating:   PG-13 -- for violence, language, and mature (?) themes.  
Disclaimer:  I don't own Sherlock, but Shannon is _mine_.  
Dedication: For S.B.B., my very own Shannon Holmes.  
Warnings: Nothing yet -- check back later once more chapters've been written.  
A/N: I'm Looking for a good beta-reader to criticize, edit, encourage, etc.  If you're interested, I'd love to hear from you -- shanlock@raistland.com.  On with the show!  
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I met Holmes when I was fifteen, and I didn't have enough sense then to realize what I was getting myself into.  It's taken me longer than I care to admit to understand exactly what's going on – and that only after years have passed, tears have fallen, and bullets have been fired.  Nothing like a little blood to make you really see for the first time what you've had all along.

But I'm starting at the ending.  My name is Sarah Watson, and in the tradition of all the Watsons who came before me, I'm writing down my story so far.  Let's start at the beginning.

*          *          *

High school was difficult for me.  I'd thought I wanted to be a doctor ever since I was in kindergarten, but after a bad experience at our local hospital, I changed my mind.  I turned my back on medicine for once and for all, cracked open my mother's dusty poetry anthologies, and turned my feet onto a path that would eventually lead me to becoming a college professor.  A college professor of English.

My parents were crushed.  My father, Patrick Watson, was a pediatric surgeon at Mercy.  My grandfather was a pediatrician, and his father before him was a general practitioner.  Both of my uncles are in medicine as well, and in fact out of all my cousins, only one or two have made other career plans.  My only brother, three years my junior, suffers from severe schizophrenia and, though able to have a good life and a steady job, would never be able to carry on the family tradition by becoming an M.D.  My mother, Anne Turner Watson, with a long-suffering sigh, put away her dreams of retiring to her daughter's rich country estate and began working overtime.

It was in my freshman year that I killed my parents' hopes.  I dropped my math classes and my skirts, donning instead a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses and an equally worn pair of men's jeans.  I took to wearing t-shirts instead of pink fuzzy sweaters – my mother's idea of what girls should keep in a wardrobe.  I hated her for it at the time; she tried until her last day to make me more feminine.  When she passed away in a car crash that spring, my resentment of her faded but my resolve tripled; I threw away everything pink I owned.

I didn't make many friends. I go to Memorial High here in town, a school full of jocks and budding zealots – not a comforting atmosphere for a literary tomboy who grew up in an atheist household.  I didn't believe in God then – and I suppose I still don't, though my beliefs in general have changed since those years.  But that's another story altogether.

My junior year met me with few friends. I was a quiet, bookish girl who made good grades and stayed mostly out of the eye of the public.  At the time, I liked to think I had a lot to say, that the problem lay with a lack of able listeners.

And Shannon was certainly a listener; she picked everything up like a sponge, though she did a good deal of talking herself.  I met her as the girl who sat behind me in my junior biology class, and we spent the greater part of first semester arguing over religion and history and everything in between – though we avoided the topics of fashion, boys, and politics like the plague.  It was a mutual decision.  I suppose she was my first true best friend – that is, friend who knew me not for my reputation but for my own thoughts and personality.  We both had our own obsessions – mine with a hundred dead poets, hers with all things Sherlockian.  For the most part, we each respected the other's oddities and generally we got along famously, except for a few vicious spats when we discovered we disagreed completely in matters of both romance and music.

"Beethoven?" she asked me incredulously one dreary afternoon.  We were in the middle of a lecture over the virtues of zebra mussels, and we were (theoretically) trying to keep quiet and not disturb class.  

"Shhh!" I hissed.  Despite my growing knack for rebellion, our biology teacher was a particularly frightening man with a short temper and a neck as thick as my thighs.

"_Beethoven_?" she repeated more quietly, her tone still acidic.  "You've got to be kidding me, Sarah!"

*          *          *

At this point in time, we were still on a first-name basis.  (It sounds strange, but realize –Holmes just doesn't do very many things the orthodox way.) She explained it to me once:  "Watson," she said, "I don't believe it's important to remember more than one name when I first meet somebody, and so I hang onto the first title I'm told.  Usually a first name.  If I decide you're worth the time, I might pick up your nickname."  She paused and looked at me with an amused flicker in her eyes. "And if you're truly my friend, I'll call you by your last name, which is ultimately the most important."

*          *          *

"Yes, Beethoven," I replied with a straight face.  "I'm dead serious," I added.  I felt another heated discussion coming on, and smiling now would be a one-way ticket to losing ground before we'd hardly begun.  Arguing with Shannon was a good way to spend time; she was damn smart, though her grades certainly didn't show it.  She thought her classes were boring, and aside from a mental block when it came to math, her failure to make good marks was a direct result of her lack of attention.

But, as it turned out, this wasn't just a heated discussion.  I said Beethoven, she said Chopin; I added Mozart, she countered with Debussy; one thing led to another, and before I knew it, we weren't speaking.  The same thing happened when we stumbled onto the topic of love.

"I do not now, and never will," she declared in a level tone, "believe in 'love' as anything more than a series of chemical reactions and a state of mind."  I disagreed vehemently, the argument dragged on, and when we finally agreed to disagree, we were so sick of each other that we didn't talk for a week.

It sounds ridiculous, I know – but Shannon has always gone at everything, and I do mean everything, with the full force of all her passions.  She believes in everything she says, and she'll hold to her beliefs with everything she's got. She's not closed-minded, she's eerily well thought-out. And so, sometimes, all it takes is a spark to light a fire under her that'll burn from here to Hades before you're through.  She's intense, and I mean that in every sense of the word.  In a conversation, she'll run you through hoops before she's even said hello.  She's impossible to read; for the three months I first knew her, I never heard her laugh and saw her smile only once or twice.  Trying to imagine Shannon Holmes in tears was like trying to write with the wrong end of a pen – it just won't work, and the more you try, the dumber you look.  I guess the challenge is half the charm.

She still called me Sarah, and I called her Shannon.  To be honest, I wouldn't have been able to tell you what her last name was if it hadn't been for her interest and my resulting education in the world of Sherlock Holmes.  The irony of the last names – hers as Holmes and mine as Watson – stuck with me almost immediately.

We only saw each other in class, at lunch, and around the halls.  Still, I thought of her as a friend.  Maybe not someone I'd stay friends with after we stopped having junior biology together, but someone I could count on for a chat or to help with a research paper in a pinch.

That all changed over Christmas, when my father died.

*          *          *

My parents had waited until their late thirties to have children, and that meant they were both hitting fifty by the time I made it to high school.  My mother's accident happened when I was thirteen, and though my father's health was perfect at the time, he followed her less than two years later, passing in his sleep.  His colleagues said his heart just gave out.  It was Christmas Eve when he went, and the service was held on the twenty-seventh.  It snowed at his funeral; the dirt was cold as they threw it over his coffin.  I cried, but it was a hollow feeling. Since my mother had died, I'd seen it coming in my father.  His eyes had been empty without her.

I sold my father's stocks and bonds, our house, and our minivan, and I sent the money with my brother to stay with family out in the country a few states away.  I know they cared for him more lovingly than I could have; I still get Christmas cards with their smiling photos in them, and my brother calls me from time to time.  He loves the country, and I have no guilt over sending him away.

He certainly couldn't have stayed with me.  I found myself avoiding phone-calls from DHS, and in the end it seemed like sheer luck was all that kept me out of an orphanage: Shannon happened to stop by.

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" she asked me.  We sat in my kitchen, drinking hot tea in the dark; the house had been sold effective of the first of the year, and boxes lay scattered around the house, some empty, most full.  I'd had to beg to keep the water running; they'd already shut off the electricity. "You don't look so good," she said.

That was Shannon's way of saying she was worried about me, though literally she was right.  My father's memory was a good one, and his ghost had left me in peace. Still, I was missing a lot of sleep.

"I'll be fine," I said.  "I just wish I knew what to do.  I don't know… The thought of moving away to some foster home somewhere…" I shook my head helplessly.

"Scares you," Shannon finished for me.  From anyone else, it would have been an insult.  I just nodded, feeling tired.   She took a long drink of her tea and then sat back in her chair. Her gray eyes glinted at me through the dim light filtering off the melting snow outside the kitchen windows.  I shivered; I'd been keeping a fire going in the fireplace, and while it kept a few rooms above freezing, it was hardly comfortable.  I sighed. It wouldn't be long before somebody from the state showed up to take me away.  And maybe that was for the best, after all…

"You don't have to go," she said quietly. 

"What do you mean?" I asked, feeling angry.  "They're dead, Shannon.  They're dead, and Austin is gone to stay with the family, and I'm alone.  I've called my relatives; none of them will take me in.  None of them."  I bowed my head, frustrated and trying to fight back tears for the thousandth time since the funeral. It was true: none of the few family relations I could get in contact with would take me. 

"My best bet was my uncle, out in New York, but I can't get in touch with him. Nobody knows where he is, or how to find him.  He doesn't even know about my dad. And nobody else wants me," I repeated again.

"I know, Sarah," Shannon said.  "But you can become your own guardian; you turned sixteen earlier this month, and the state will recognize that."  She watched me, weighing every little motion I made.  "You'd have to get a job, of course, and show you had somewhere to stay…"

"I don't have either of those," I said, shaking my head.

"Not yet."  Shannon raised an eyebrow.  "But that doesn't mean it's impossible. How hard are you willing to try?"

*          *          *

I got a job at the paper the next day, whoring out my love for the English langue as a copy editor and general errand-girl.  I only worked part-time and what hours I did put in didn't pay a lot, but as it turned out, I didn't need much money: Shannon took me in.

She lived on the south side of town, in a small but comfortable two-level apartment.  Apparently she owned it, because I never once in all my days there saw her pay rent.  "It's no Baker Street," she said as we arrived at her doorstep, arms full of boxes, "but then, this isn't exactly London, now is it?"

The second floor held a small living room full of bookshelves and comfortable, worn chairs, with a computer set up in the corner almost as an afterthought.  A pair of windows looked down into the street.  Two of the doors leading off that room led to bedrooms – one Shannon's, and one now mine, connected by a clean, if small, bathroom. The third led to the stairs.

The first floor was made up of a kitchen and a smaller apartment that Shannon told me would have been meant for servants when this part of the city was first built a hundred years ago.  This was occupied by Dr. Everett Harding and his wife. Everett, a scattered, jovial man, taught philosophy at the university downtown, and his wife, known to me simply as Mrs. Harding, kept house and cooked for us in place of the couple's paying rent.

It wasn't luxurious, but to me, everything about it felt like home.

I went back to school when Christmas break ended. Life with Shannon wasn't easy. She was a terrible insomniac and spent more nights than I care to remember plucking at her violin; she lived a life even more chaotically eccentric than I ever could have expected; she had a habit of taking off at odd hours and not showing again for days at a time.  Once, she disappeared for two weeks; I was worried sick when she reappeared again, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. This went on more and more frequently as time went on, and she refused to answer any of my questions about it.  Eventually I just dropped it, letting her come and go and trying to stay out of her way, as frustrating as it was at times. But all in all, I was grateful to have a place to stay.  We made decent roommates that first semester I stayed with her, and I looked forward to another year of the same strange, if fulfilling, situation.

I had no idea how much more Shannon really had in mind.


	2. She's Already Dead

= Part Two =  
"She's already dead."

I got back from school the first day of class my senior year to find blood on the floor.  I unlocked the front door, juggling an armful of books, and as I stepped inside, my jaw dropped.

Splattered all over Mrs. Harding's immaculate kitchen were dark crimson stains – a small puddle had gathered on and under one of the kitchen chairs, and red footsteps crisscrossed the white tile floor. A trail of blood led from the front door to the bloody chair, and then to the stairs. 

I threw my books down on the counter and ran across the kitchen, trying to keep from stepping in the blood.  I took the stairs two at a time and burst through the door at the top of the staircase.

The living room was empty. The trail of blood led forward, across the carpeted floor and under the door to Shannon's room.  I sank against the doorframe for a moment, paralyzed and shaking.  Who had done this? I asked myself silently.  Was it Shannon who had lost all this blood?  What would it take to make a human being bleed like that…?

"Jesus _Christ_," I whispered.

I sprinted for the door.  As I was reaching for the doorknob, it opened from the other side.  Shannon stood in the doorway, her customary men's button-up shirt's sleeves rolled up and her arms covered in blood to her elbows.  Her eyes widened as I skidded to a stop inches in front of her, and she quickly pulled the door shut behind her.

"Sarah!" she said, seeming startled.  "What are you doing here?"

"I live here, Shannon!" I shouted at her.  I was starting to feel dizzy.  It didn't look like Shannon's blood, at least.

The door behind Shannon opened again, and a man's gray face peered out.  Shannon turned her back to me and he whispered something to her. It was too quiet to pick up, but I thought I'd heard the words "girl" and "dead."  Shannon replied, again too softly for me to hear, and the man disappeared back into Shannon's room.

"What's going _on_?" I asked, my heart pounding.  Shannon didn't look hurt; blood stained the front of her shirt and dripped from her hands, but she seemed fine.  "Are you okay?  Who…?" I asked, trying to see past Shannon into the room.

She smoothly pulled the door shut behind her.

"Not now, Sarah," she said quietly.  Her normally impassive face seemed strained; some part of me vaguely wondered when the last time she had slept was.

 "Yes, _now_!" I said, louder than I meant to. My hands were trembling and I bit my lip.  I went on, in a quiet, tense voice, "You've been disappearing for months, and I let you. I stopped asking you where you've been going. I can respect you for wanting to keep your life private, even if it frustrates the hell out of me. I appreciate everything you've done for me, I really do.  But, Shannon! This –" I jabbed a finger at the door, "goes _way _past what you can possibly expect me to ignore!"

She shook her head.  "Sarah, I—"

I wasn't hearing any of it. "What's going on?" I demanded. I pushed past Shannon and reached for the doorknob. Shannon grabbed my wrist. I think it was the first time she touched me, not counting handshakes and the occasional bump or brush-by; her grip was cold and hard. I couldn't turn the knob.

"She's already dead, Sarah," she said in a soft voice.  "There's nothing you can do…"

"Dead," I repeated dumbly.  I pulled my arm away from her, angry red streaks left around my wrist from the blood on Shannon's hands.  _Dead!_ screamed my thoughts.  My knees threatened to buckle.  A small voice somewhere in the back of my mind laughed, disgusted – I could never have been a doctor, after all!  My eyes fixed on the bloodstains on the carpet.  Shannon had blood up to her elbows. The girl… whoever she was… was dead. _Nothing more you can do_.

I fell to my knees, black spots swimming before my eyes.  As if from far away, I heard Shannon saying, "Sarah! Sarah…"  The world went dark.

*          *          *

It took me a long time to figure out where I was when I opened my eyes. I was lying in a bed on my back, still in my clothes, the covers pulled up to my waist.  It wasn't my bed.  And it couldn't have been Shannon's; she'd never once invited me into her room, and besides, Shannon's bed would be soaked with blood…

_Blood_!  I sat bolt upright.  Everything that had happened rushed back to me all at once, like remembering a nightmare.  I looked down at my wrist – the bloody handprint was still there. Some parts were still foggy; she'd grabbed my wrist, and I'd pulled away… yes, that's right, that was when I'd fainted…  _Fainted! _ I felt my face color when I remembered.  My father would have been so disappointed in me, I thought miserably.  I shook my head; that train of thought was a bad idea.  There would be more than enough time for that later.

I looked around me.  I had been placed in a comfortable, if smallish, room full of books and old-fashioned furniture.  "Mrs. H's room!" I said aloud.  It was the bedroom of the little suite; I'd seen it once before, when I'd been in to borrow a book from the Professor.

I stood up. I needed to go find Shannon, to figure out what needed to be done.  My stomach lurched at the thought of going back up the stairs, following the blood trail to God knows what might lay at the end of it…

"Sit down, Sarah."

I jumped at the voice and turned.  Shannon stood in the doorway, looking tired.  Her hands were clean, and I could see she'd just changed her shirt.  As her eyes slid over me, appraising, she deftly buttoned her cuffs.  That put the final touch on her usual crisp appearance – a gray, long-sleeved men's dress shirt with collar and cuffs neatly buttoned, and black cargo pants.  I hadn't ever realized it before, but the consistency of Shannon's wardrobe had become comforting: another reason finding her with blood up to her elbows had been so startling. But now all the blood was gone; her hair – so dark brown it looked almost black against her unusually pale skin – was smoothed and tucked behind her ears, and if it weren't for the red marks still staining my wrist, I would have wondered if it all hadn't been a dream after all. 

Though my head was a little clearer now, I still felt dizzy, and I hoped desperately, with no small amount of inward embarrassment, that I wouldn't pass out again. I sat back down on the bed.

"It's alright," Shannon said, sitting down in Mrs. H's comfortable armchair.  "You have nothing to be ashamed of," she said. I felt my cheeks burning and stared at my feet.  It was uncanny, how often Shannon could guess so easily what I was thinking.

When I thought the blush had faded, I looked up at her.  She seemed even more pale than usual, her face drawn. Her fingers laced together across her chest as she leaned back in the chair, her pose deceptively casual.  I sighed. She was very tall, five-ten or -eleven at least, and though you didn't really notice it when you first met her, she was thin in a wiry sort of way.  She had a habit of taking walks, sometimes very late at night, tapping out a staccato with her old hook-handled umbrella as she went;  I never worried about her being out so late -- I suspected she was stronger than she looked. She was also quite possibly the most alert individual I'd ever met; by now, I'd figured out that Shannon looking relaxed meant bad news.  It would take living with her to know it, but she was worried.

"What's going on, Shannon?" I asked her slowly.

"Let's go upstairs; Mrs. H was very kind to let us borrow her bedroom for a while, but I think you're okay to walk now."  She caught my alarmed glance at the door and shook her head.  "It's all been cleaned up," she said.

I followed her upstairs.  She hadn't lied; the kitchen was as sparkling white as it had ever been, the blood having been mopped up.  Even the carpet on the stairs and floor upstairs was clean, except for a few slightly darker areas where the bleach and water hadn't dried yet.  I sat down in my favorite spot, an overstuffed armchair in front of the little fireplace. It wasn't lit this time of year, but I thought it was comforting anyway. I took a deep breath, thankfully starting to feel a little less ill.

Shannon pulled the door closed behind us. She slid a little chain lock into place, the kind you see on the inside of hotel room doors; I'd seen it, but I'd never really thought about what it might be for.  Shannon crossed the room quickly, drawing the blinds of both the windows.

"I'll be right back, Sarah," she said quickly. She slipped into her room, shutting the door behind her.  I sighed and looked around.

This upstairs living room -- really a parlor of sorts -- was easily the largest room in the house, but closed off as it now was, it felt like the smallest.  Bookshelves loomed high over my shoulders as I seated myself in one of the comfortable chairs in front of the unlit fireplace.  From the mantle, knick-knacks of every description glittered in the soft light creeping through the window blinds.  Some sort of African-looking masks leered at me from the walls amidst a thousand newspaper clippings, photos, posters, and other chaotically arranged memorabilia. An old-fashioned standing mirror leaned in the corner. Everything was remarkably void of dust, and I marveled at Mrs. H's ability to keep it all polished, if not organized. 

The computer desk in the corner was piled high with papers and other small items, everything from a magnifying glass, to a set of small statuettes, to what looked like a few stray test-tubes. I seemed to recall Shannon saying something about a Chemistry experiment of some sort at dinner a few nights ago; I wondered briefly where she kept her chemicals.  As I looked around the room, I couldn't see much space for them – every surface was covered in the jumble of papers and other… I blinked. I was almost positive that, on the shelf just under the window there, I'd caught sight of a gun!  What would Shannon be doing with a gun? She was only a year older than I was; that would certainly be illegal, much less dangerous, and—

Abruptly, the bedroom door swung open and Shannon reappeared, a thick brown accordion file tucked under her arm.  She shut the door behind her again quickly before coming over to lounge in the chair opposite mine.  As she set the file down on the coffee table between us, I wondered briefly whether she'd cleaned up the blood in her own room yet; probably not.  Shannon leaned back in her chair and bowed her head for a moment, her eyes closed, fingers steepled across her chest. 

"Your name is Sarah Anne Watson," she said suddenly.  Her eyelids flickered open, and something strained in her voice made me lean forward attentively.  "You grew up with both of your parents, Anne and Patrick Watson."

I nodded slowly.  I had no idea what this had to do with the blood or… any of the rest of it, but I bit back my curiosity and fear. By this time, I knew Shannon well enough to have learned I was better to let her come to it in her own time.  

"Your family comes from a long line of doctors," she went on, her voice intense and quiet.  "Your father practiced, as did his father before him and so on, back further than even I know of."  I shifted uncomfortably; we both knew the subject of my withdrawal from the study of medicine was still sensitive.  She went on as if she hadn't noticed.  "But you broke the tradition. If there's one thing your family all recognize about you, it's that you don't belong in the medical field."

I felt my cheeks burning yet again.  "Shannon," I said, my tone sharp, "I really don't see what this has to do with—"

"And that's why it took me so long to come to you," she said.  It was like she hadn't heard me, or was ignoring me completely. I shook my head, confused.

"What do you mean, 'came to me?' " I asked.  "We just met in class…"

Late afternoon shadows slid over the room in thin horizontal bars of brightness and shade; Shannon's slate-gray eyes glinted at me in the half light.  "Just listen to me, Watson," she said.

I sat back in my chair, a strange feeling overwhelming me.  She had called me by my last name!  For the first time, she had called me Watson.  Something about the simple change in her form of address touched a chord in me; I closed my mouth, subsiding. Shannon's eyes flickered; my reaction hadn't escaped her notice.

"It's no coincidence that we met in class, Watson," she said. The name came quickly to her lips.  "I enrolled and picked that class on purpose, knowing you were in it.  And it was no accident that I sat next to you."  She paused, holding me with her gaze.  "I came looking for you."


	3. Her Surname Was Marricci

= Part Three=  
"Her surname was Marricci."

"You don't know much about me," Shannon said, "and though I didn't expressly mean to be secretive, I think it's probably a good thing that it all turned out this way.  If you had known what I was looking for in advance, you might have done some vital things differently, and then it would've taken longer to tell.  Trust me, I know; I made that mistake once before…" she trailed away, musing to herself.  I didn't move, waiting for her to go on.

"It was your career choice that threw me off," she began again. "Never in all the history of the Watsons has the family legacy been handed down to a family member who wasn't either a practicing doctor or well on his or her way to becoming one."  She shook her head, a brief smile flitting across her lips as she looked at me.  "But now, I'm almost sure you're it.  Almost positive.

"I introduced my interest in Sherlock Holmes to you as a hobby."  Her gaze seemed to become more concentrated as she said the next words:  "It's not a hobby, Watson. I am the great grand-daughter of Sherlock Holmes. He was real, as real as you are or I am."  She leaned forward.  "And if I'm right, you are the great grand-daughter of John Watson."

She leaned back again, watching me, her pale eyes shining from under half-closed lids.  I took a deep breath, feeling uncomfortable under that gaze.  I'd seen her level it on fellow students, teachers, and strangers alike over the months I'd known her, and I'd always watched their discomfort with mild amusement.  Now, being the subject of that stare myself, I understood.  I felt as though she were slowly taking me apart, looking right through me, into my heart and mind as though she could read my thoughts.  I shivered and shank backwards, feeling tiny beads of sweat starting to crawl on my forehead.

"I'm not done," she said.  She never took her eyes from mine, hardly seemed to blink.  

"Sherlock Holmes" she went on, "is only one of a long line of 'detectives,' if you will. His exploits were sometimes overstated by Conan Doyle, but more of the time, they were played down.  Holmes was a brilliant man, but deduction can't explain it all."  She paused.

"You're telling me he had help?" I asked.

"Ha!  You could put it that way, I suppose." Shannon stood suddenly and began pacing, the length of the room and back again, her hands clasped behind her back.  I recognized this as a habit that usually accompanied serious thought.  She talked as she went.  

"Sometime back in the medieval ages, in the late sixteen hundreds when Europe was warring and the Catholics were sweeping over the continent nation by nation, full of damnation and brimstone, the first 'real' Holmes and the first 'real' Watson met.  They were both educated men of little faith, and the Inquisition drove them to the Netherlands as young men at around the same time. It was sheer coincidence that they met at all… assuming you don't believe in fate.

"At the time, the words 'psychic' and 'telekinetic' hadn't been invented yet, but all the Western world was abuzz with the idea of witchcraft.  And these two men recognized within each other the same 'witchery' each had seen in himself.

"Close your mouth, Watson!" she said, catching my question before I'd said it. "Just listen, until I finish, and then you can argue with me all you want." I nodded reluctantly, and she started again.  "They met, Holmes and Watson, and over the space of a few years, they became very good friends.  According to some, they actually shared more than friendship, but that isn't really relevant.  What _is _relevant is the fact that, around this same time, yet another 'witch' arrived in Amsterdam, fleeing from Italy – a woman who gave the two men what would become an even more concrete reason to stay together.

"It was said that this Italian witch could start fires with her mind, or sometimes force her enemies to do terrible things just by looking at them.  There were no laws in Amsterdam about witchcraft; at the time, it was a clean, prosperous city, but it was full of pagans and protestants, and so she was mostly left alone.

"Even when her enemies started disappearing altogether, the law looked the other way.  She grew a reputation for ruthlessness, cunning, and cruelty; she became rich, and married into a high-ranking family.  Her husband died, and she collected his estate with dry eyes. Though rumors of treachery and poison swept the city, nothing was done. From then on, she took what she wanted from whomever she chose, and was feared among the lower and upper classes alike.  

"Her surname was Marricci, but after her husband's death, she changed it to sound more Anglo-Saxon."

"Moriarty," I whispered, even as Shannon said it aloud.  She nodded at me and continued.

"Watson and Holmes eventually heard of her, of her cunning and her rumored abilities.  They made a few inquiries, and finally, looking to pool their knowledge, they visited the Lady Moriarty at her husband's estate.  They set out wanting nothing more than to learn, to gather more information about themselves and others like them.  With powers, or the gift, or whatever you want to call it.

"They returned from their visit with a much more complicated goal in mind. I'm not sure exactly what happened there; it was never set down on paper, and over the years, the story's been lost.  But, whatever went on, by the time they left the Lady Moriarty's company, it was clear to Holmes and Watson that this woman not only possessed in full the remarkable abilities the rumors suggested, but that she could and was abusing those abilities for her own personal gain.  She was stealing, taking advantage of the poor and the lowest of the upper-class, amassing more wealth than she could ever possibly need.  She was doing it like she was playing a game; to her, it was a hobby.  An art.

"And so Holmes and Watson made a pact. They vowed, upon not only their lives but their very souls as well, to prevent the abuse of powers like theirs.  They swore to protect others who shared those powers, and to do their best to hone and perfect their own individual talents.  At the time, it was a very real and very difficult promise; looking back at the few records that have survived from those years, it's impossible to tell how many people they rescued from the stake or the noose before the duo reached their own end.

"Watson was captured and burned at the stake himself, and Holmes followed shortly after. Some stories say Holmes was careless, that he was caught and burned too, while others tell that he died of a broken heart, throwing himself from his own roof.  I personally believe it was something in between the two.  Regardless, they were in their fifties, an old age for the seventeenth century, and they accomplished a lot during their time together. The recorded numbers of the saved – innocents and 'witches' alike – are respectable.  And I suspect the true figures surpass the records by far.

"And the Lady Moriarty.  Though Holmes and Watson traveled away from the Netherlands during their years together, Moriarty was never far from their thoughts.  They followed her actions from abroad;  she married several more times, never letting go of her last name, and had several children. Every man foolish enough to let her exotic appearance and full purse lure him in met with a cruel end; behind her back, she was called the Black Widow, for the 'mysterious' deaths of her husbands, and for her dark hair and eyes.

"From time to time, Holmes and Watson would drop unexpectedly into Amsterdam, plant some rumors against the Lady Moriarty in a few choice ears, and vanish again.  Occasionally the duo would even become personally involved, prodding the sluggish police force into action or, in a few extreme cases, stepping in themselves to prevent serious thefts or murders.

"That's how the feud between the Holmes's and the Moriarty's began, and it's lasted for generations and has spanned hundreds of years.  But I'm getting ahead of myself." Shannon paused, looking at me for the first time in what seemed like forever. She frowned. 

"Good God, Watson, you look terrible!  I'll get you a glass of water. Be right back."  She was through the door and down the stairs before I could so much as open my mouth.

I sat back in my chair, rubbing my eyes.  I looked at my watch; it had only been an hour.  It had seemed like a lifetime.  My mouth suddenly felt very dry.  Shannon's point in telling me all this had slowly been creeping closer and closer, and now that I had a moment to think, it all caught up with me.  Shannon Holmes, Sarah Watson… Psychic abilities, witch burnings, and hundreds of years of history.  The idea of it spun through my head crazily, and I thought that maybe I did want a cool, mind-clearing glass of water, after all.

"What does she expect from me?" I said aloud to the empty room.  I realized the sun had set and we'd been virtually in the dark for the past few minutes, and I turned on the lights.  I took a deep breath, wondering whether I should leave now or let this play out.  I didn't have time to make a choice, though -- at that moment, Shannon came back, deftly balancing two glasses of water and a plate of Mrs. H's little sandwiches.  

"Here, Watson," she said as she set them down on the coffee table.  "You look like you could use something to eat."

I gratefully took one of the glasses.  As I did, my eyes wandered to the standing mirror in the corner.  I glanced at my own reflection and blinked, startled.  I was terribly pale, almost sick-looking, and my eyes seemed tired.  I realized that I really _was_ getting tired, even though it was still early in the evening.  The thought of bed, of going to sleep and forgetting this day had ever happened, was very, very tempting.  I could just close my eyes and let all this become just another bad dream.

I shook my head, resolving in that moment to sit this through and see what was going to happen.  After all, Shannon hadn't seemed like a loony before this; maybe she had a reason for believing all of it.  And eventually, she would get around the explaining the blood.

The blood! I realized with a start.  She hadn't said anything about the blood or the girl, and with all the talking she'd done about witch burnings and Moriarty's, I'd almost completely forgotten.

"I promise, I'll explain this afternoon too," Shannon said, watching me.  I looked up at her, into those eerie gray eyes, and then looked away quickly, repressing a shiver.  It was just so creepy that she could tell what you were thinking so often…

The word "telepathy" tickled the back of my mind.  A textbook definition from the psych class I'd taken my Sophomore year ran through my mind: _Telepathy, the act of communicating mind to mind.  A supernatural ability; the ability to read thoughts._ My eyes widened and I stared at Shannon.  She turned away, moving across the room towards the computer desk, but before she did I thought I might have seen a wry smile on her lips.

Might.

I shook my head and drank some water, grateful to have something to do with my hands. I was starting to feel more and more nervous, and it was everything I could do to sit still and not stare at Shannon like a bug under glass.  It's just coincidence! I told myself harshly, taking a long drink. 

"Should I keep going?" Shannon asked over her shoulder.  She clicked on the lamp sitting on the desk, turning the room brighter and a little more comforting.  She didn't turn around, waiting.

I had a flash of insight, an impression of scales tipping back and forth.  Something told me this was one of those turning points – that, either way I chose, there could be no going back.  I gulped the last of the water and set the glass down on the table with a loud crystalline clink.  I took a deep breath.

"Go on," I said.  "I'm listening."


	4. Good Night Holmes

= Part Four =  
"Good night, Holmes."

"Excellent!"

She crossed the room in hardly a heartbeat, perching again on the edge of the chair across from mine.  She smiled at me, what was I think the first genuine smile I'd ever seen from her.  It was amazing, the difference the change of expression made.  Her gray eyes seemed almost golden, and it was like the highlights in her hair, a deep red, shone with some inner light. I smiled back involuntarily, and it was in that moment I realized, with an almost electric start, that she was beautiful in a sharp, clear way.  I never saw her the same way again after that moment.

She started talking again.  Though still serious, she seemed much relieved, as though by giving me the opportunity to back out, she had vested herself of some heavy weight.  And when I thought about it later, it made sense -- if all the things she'd told me were true, then she really would feel responsible for bringing me into all of this.  At the time, I could almost feel the tension easing out of the room, and I leaned forward, listening to Shannon's voice.

"The Amsterdam Holmes and Watson weren't the heads of their families at the time,"  she said, returning to the earlier strain of conversation without bothering to reintroduce the topic.  "However, they're considered the patriarchs of their respective bloodlines by the most of their great-great-great-grandchildren and so on.  Really, there would be too many greats to count; the families stretch back over centuries, as I said, and exact relations have been convoluted over time."  She opened the brown accordion file she'd brought out with her and selected from it a large sheet of folded paper. Catching my questioning look, she quirked an eyebrow and started unfolding it.  I moved the sandwiches and water to make room on the coffee-table.  I started fishing in my pocket for my reading glasses.

"Really, Watson, those can't be necessary."  Shannon looked up at me, pausing in unfolding the large sheet of paper, obviously amused. I settled the glasses over my nose.

"Mmm," I said, considering my answer.  "I like wearing them," I said after a pause, taking them off to polish at the lenses with the hem of my t-shirt. I put them back on and flashed her my best smile.  "I mean, come on -- Clark Kent was a thousand times sexier than Superman, right?"

Shannon smirked, and shook her head.  "You don't need them," she said.

"How do you know?" I asked, a little irritated.  She was always so _smug_, like she thought she knew everything... Almost before I'd finished my question, though, she'd pulled a manila folder out of the file and was holding it out to me.

"What's...?"  I asked, taking it.  Shannon gestured for me to open it, watching me with a Cheshire glint in her eyes.  I sighed, recognizing that look; it was no use now but to follow orders, and...

I glanced down and my train of thought came to a roaring stand-still.  The bold letters, printed in angry red ink, stood out clearly from the first page:

**SARAH ANNE WATSON  
Daughter of Patrick Watson**

A little below that was a viciously short biography, dated illegibly at the end but not signed.  It had been written by hand, and it had probably been done in a hurry, I decided, since some of the words were abbreviated.  That, or whoever had written it -- and the handwriting looked a little like Shannon's -- had been writing carelessly.  Reading it for a second time, I thought a little bitterly that carelessness was probably the more likely reason.

_Born December 5th, OKC metro. hosp.  Mother RIP; one sib. -- Austin Thomas, schitzo.  Not interested in medicine.  Abilities noted: none.  Probability -- low to nonext.  Not worth further examination._

I could feel Shannon's eyes on me but I didn't look up.  Instead, I leafed through the rest of the folder.  One page looked like a medical chart; another was a photocopy of a birth-certificate.  There was a lot of information on my mother, and a very little on my father.  A little of everything you could ever want to know about me.  There were even a few report cards, and near the back, a photocopied page of a paper I'd written for class my freshman year with a handwriting analysis stapled to it.  I glanced at it vaguely.

_Creative, passionate, organized_, it said. _Intelligent and introspective_.  Right, I thought wryly.  Me, organized. Sure.   

Shannon muttered something I couldn't quite catch.  I looked up at her quickly, and she gazed at me blandly in response. I sighed.

"Okay, I give up," I said.  "This is eerie. Explain."

"It's like I told you," Shannon said matter-of-factly. "I came looking for you."

"You got all this information together to look for _me_?" I asked.  Before she could answer, I tossed the folder back to her.  "Even though I'm 'not worth further examination'?" I hadn't thought it cynically, but it came out sounding sarcastic.

Shannon let the bite in my tone roll over her, seeming unimpressed.  "I don't know everything," she said simply.  I blushed just a little and looked away, remembering my annoyance with her earlier.  "And so," she resumed after a moment,  "that's how I know you don't need glasses."

"Ah... right."   The change of topics was a little dazing.  Shannon had adopted the habit of carrying on three or four conversations with me at the same time, and I was still trying to get used to it.

"Then why do you wear them?" she asked, frowning at me thoughtfully.  "If you just wanted them for looks, you'd have chosen a pair without prescription lenses.  And the pair you're wearing now, if I'm right, would correct someone farsighted with thirty-thirty vision...?"

She seemed truly curious, and I smiled inwardly, wondering how long she'd been puzzling over this.  It still surprised me, how much she did notice, and how important it was to her to have every detail sorted out.

"It's not a very interesting story," I said, shaking my head.  I picked up my glass and swirled the water around in it, watching the lazy whirlpool.  "A couple years ago, I started getting headaches when I read.  For a while, it got pretty bad. I'd get sick whenever I'd try to read something, even just a page or two of a book or whatever.  I missed school for a couple days because I couldn't do my work in class without giving myself a migraine."

"And so you started wearing glasses," Shannon finished for me.  "I'm assuming they helped?"

I nodded. "Yeah, they did.  My parents decided I'd just been reading too much. 'Straining my eyes,' my dad said.  So I got myself a cheap pair of glasses from the Seven-Eleven down the block." I took a drink of water and set the glass back down, nearly empty. "And the headaches went away."  I shrugged.  "Like I said, not a very interesting story.  I still wear glasses when I read."

 "But you don't have to," Shannon said, musingly. "At least not all the time.  And that makes me wonder..."  She leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers as she thought.  I took the opportunity to collect my thoughts some, at the same time eating one of Mrs. H's little sandwiches.

This wasn't at all how the conversation had started, I reflected. When had things had switched course...?  We'd gone from talking seriously about witch-burnings and family histories to chatting idly about my glasses.  We might've had this conversation about my vision any night this past week, or the week before.  And in a strange way, I found it comforting.  If Shannon and I could talk just like we had before I walked in and found blood on the floor and the world fell apart, then maybe things would be okay. 

I realized, suddenly, that I'd been afraid.  I'd seen the blood, and it was perfectly normal to be panicked then, yes -- but even after Shannon assured me that she was all right, I'd been scared.  I'd been afraid that things would change between Shannon and me, that our friendship had been washed away as definitely as the bloodstains had been washed out of the carpet.

Still, though I was no longer worrying about my friendship, I hardly felt as though my mind were at ease.  After an evening of talking with Shannon, I only had more questions!  Instead, I now had a family legacy spanning hundreds of years hanging over my head -- and Shannon still wasn't talking about what had happened that afternoon.  I felt worn out and tired.  The nap I'd taken earlier had been short and involuntary, and apparently hadn't done much to keep me alert.  My eyes closed without my telling them to, and I found myself nodding off.

*          *          *

I woke up again at the sound of Shannon's voice.  "Watson. Watson!  Ah, there.  I was almost afraid you'd passed out again, you were so hard to wake."

My eyes flickered open blearily and I yawned, sitting up a little straighter in my chair.  I pulled the glasses off my nose and stuck them back in a pocket, looking around. The desk lamp had been turned off, and only the standing lamp illuminated the room now, casting strange shadows across the room. The blinds were still drawn. Shannon sat perched on the edge of the coffee table in front of me, watching me in the half-light with a little smirk on her face.

"Oh, shove it," I grumbled, rubbing my eyes.  I think I was too sleepy to blush, or I would have -- she was never going to let me live down the whole fainting thing, was she?  "What time is it?"

"Nearly one in the morning, and past time for bed."

"Brilliant deduction, Holmes," I said wryly. Shannon raised her eyebrows.

"Hardly," she replied.  "You were snoring, Watson."

"You lie!  Haven't snored since the time I had bronchitis when I was eight."  I yawned again.

"Go to bed, Watson,"  Shannon said, following me with her eyes as I stood up.  I started to object but she cut me off.  "I'll explain the rest tomorrow, I promise.  You'd only fall asleep if I started talking again now," she added, sounding amused.

"Wouldn't," I argued a little fuzzily.  She was right though; I was almost asleep again on my feet.  I shuffled towards my bedroom, feeling Shannon's gaze on my back as I went.  I opened the door.

"Good night, Watson,"  Shannon said from behind me.

"Good night, Holmes," I said.


	5. Do You Believe

= Part Five =  
"Do you believe it?"

I couldn't breathe.  No matter how hard I gasped, how hard I tried to pull the air into my lungs, it just wouldn't come.  I opened my eyes to redness, thick and only just transparent, like paint or blood.  Blood!

I gasped, and this time, I pulled something hot and sticky into my lungs.  I was drowning, drowning in the blood!  I tried to move my arms but couldn't, couldn't move my legs.  It flooded into my mouth, smothering me when I tried to scream.  I started to feel dizzy, frantic, trying to move.  Stuck, drowning, sinking!

"I'm sorry it has to be this way," a voice said from somewhere behind me.  Cold, positively cold.  I couldn't tell whether it was a man's or a woman's voice; it seemed strangely distorted.  Echoes -- "It has to be this way."  The sounds of a scuffle, and a scream.  A crash, and then --

Then the teeth-jarring report of a gun fired close-by, much too close-by, and then searing pain, in my stomach, in my head.  The blood seemed to flicker and then explode into flames, hot, searing, all over me, covering me.  _Still can't breathe_. The fire! God it hurt...  Somewhere, someone was laughing, and I could almost see a pair of keen, piercing green eyes staring at me.  I tried to look closer, but the _fire_! --and I screamed then, fighting against whatever it was in the fire holding me down, pulling on my shoulders, tearing at my face with searing, hot red flames.  Let me go! I tried to shout.  _Let me go_!  I kicked out as hard as I could.

"Watson, don't -- Christ!"  Shannon's voice.  The flames seemed to shiver once, and then died away into green spots on the backs of my eyelids.  I took one deep breath, and then another, my eyes flickering open.

"God," Shannon muttered, rubbing the side of her face.  She stared at me balefully, standing at the foot of my bed.  "Do you always kick people when they wake you up?"

I sighed and sat up, rubbing my eyes.  I switched on the lamp on my bedside table, blurry eyes going to the green numbers glowing quietly from my alarm clock.  Two AM.

"Sorry," I said a little fuzzily.  "I was having a nightmare."

"Some nightmare," Shannon said, experimentally opening her mouth wide.  She winced and put a hand to her jaw.  "You were screaming, Watson."

"You would have been, too."  I blinked my eyes a few time, trying to get the after-image of those flames to go away.  "I was drowning, and then burning, and somebody with a gun was laughing at me..."  I shuddered and shook my head.  "Sorry I woke you."

"Don't be," she said with a vague smile, heading for the door. She paused in the doorway.  "You okay?"

"Yeah," I said a little weakly. She nodded, seeming satisfied.  I shook my head as the door closed behind her.  Anybody else would have asked if I was going to be able to sleep again, maybe would have offered to bring me a glass of water or something.  But not Shannon.  Sometimes I wondered whether she wanted me around at all, the way she acted.  Of course, the whole 'family legacy' thing did seem to mean she needed me -- though for what, exactly, I had no idea.

"But, too," I said, addressing nobody in particular. "Too, she did fill me in just in time to avoid talking about the blood and all."  I shook my head and crossed my arms, leaning back against my headboard.  "Awfully nice of her.  Really, very giving.  I wonder if..."  

The door swung open a crack, and Shannon's head poked inside.

"If you're not too busy chatting with yourself," she said, a wry glint in her eyes, "I thought you might like some tea."

"Um... yeah, sure," I said.  I flicked off my bedside lamp, hoping she hadn't seen me blush.

*          *          *

We sat drinking tea.  It was really pretty good; Shannon told me that Mrs. H had this particular kind imported from England.  I'd laughed at her when she said it, but it was already starting to make me feel more awake.

We'd been at it for an hour now.  Shannon had gone digging through her file, handing me stack after stack of papers, some typed, some written in painfully neat, old-fashioned quill pen and home-made ink.  They were accounts, some of actual events and happenings, some just family histories, all stretching back for years and years.  Apparently John Hammond wasn't the first Watson to keep records; it seemed I'd stumbled into yet another family tradition.

The accounts detailed the lives of the Watsons and Holmeses from medieval times right up until the present.  There was even a family tree, painstakingly drawn out on a large sheet of folded-up paper -- the one Shannon had started to show me earlier.  Sure, there were a few gaps and some minor discrepancies, but mostly it was amazingly clear and organized. I read most of it, Shannon explaining a few parts and translating for me one account written in German.

The Holmeses and Watsons had stayed in touch over the decades.  In particular, there was always one member of one of the families every generation who met and teamed up with a member of the other family.  Those were the people who inherited the family legacy, Shannon explained.

"The 'gift' jumps around," Shannon said, pausing to sip at her third cup of tea.  "Sometimes it follows in a straight line, father-to-son and so on; other times, it skips from one side of the family to the complete opposite.  There's really no telling who it'll be, and it follows differently on both sides.  Just because, say, the latest Holmes is a direct descendant of the Holmes before her doesn't mean the latest Watson can't be a second cousin of the Watson before _her_.  Though, of course, sometimes it works the same way on both sides, like this time."

I looked up quickly from the worn stack of paper I'd been shuffling through.

"You mean, you know who the last Watson was?" I asked, mentally sorting through my relatives.  "I mean, the one before me?"   Shannon shrugged impassively.

"Well, my uncle was the last Holmes..."  she trailed off.

"And that means my uncle was the last Watson?" I asked curiously.  "But which one... Ah, you know, I bet it's Mike."

"And Mike's the New York uncle?"  Shannon asked, frowning slightly into her teacup.

"Yeah."  I nodded.  "I haven't heard from him since... I don't know.  It's been a long time."  I sighed, setting the stack of papers back on the table.  I looked up at Shannon.  "Why, what's up?"

She shook her head absently.  "Nothing.  Keep reading."

Used to Shannon and her habit of keeping things to herself, I just sighed and didn't press her.  She'd tell me when she was ready.  I started reading again.  The two families had moved from the Netherlands into Britain a few generations after the "first" Holmes and Watson had met; the move had something to do with the Moriarty family -- who were also included in the family accounts, though in much less detail.

Each Holmes-Watson duo who inherited the legacy seemed to figure out a little more about what was actually "going on," so to speak.  Though individual powers tended to vary, each family seemed to have a trademark ability or two.  The Holmeses were telepaths, mostly, with a flare for telekinesis -- moving objects using only the mind.  The Watsons were healers, usually less aggressive and more centered on medicine ("Go figure," I thought) than their Holmesian counterparts.  And the Moriarties were almost to a soul pyrokenetics -- fire-starters.

Neither of the Baker Street pair had ever produced children, and the legacy had passed, in both cases, to distant relatives.  Later, both the Holmes and the Watson who'd inherited the gift next had moved to America, and their children had turned into our -- Shannon's and my -- grandparents.  And that was as far as the records went.

I put down the papers and pulled my glasses off, sticking them in a pocket, within easy reach if I needed them later.  Shannon had been unobtrusively sipping her tea, leafing through some of the folders herself.  She looked up when I stood to stretch.

"What do you think?" she asked.  I sighed; the question could mean anything. I crossed the room to one of the windows. I opened the blinds and leaned my elbows on the sill, watching the city sleep.  Headlights slid across the lamp-lit room and passed away.

"Well," I said after a moment.  "Well..."  I didn't have much else to say.

"Do you believe it?" Shannon asked, voice subdued.  Tense.

"Believe it?  Yeah," I said, turning around to face her, "I do."  I took a deep breath, the kind of breath you take before you jump into very cold water.  "So let's see these powers," I said.


	6. Before I Built a Wall

=======  
A/N:  This one's dedicated to dear Hank, who's officially now my hero. Also dedicated to Your Worshipfulness, who proved the old adage: adversity breeds inspiration.  
=======

= Part Six =  
"Before I built a wall..."

I must have looked dubious when she pulled out the pack of cards, because her eyes flickered at me, obviously amused.

"You've seen too many card tricks," she said, putting the cards back on the shelf.  She stepped past me, making little musing noises as she poked around in her stuff.  "Let's see... What could I use?"

I raised an eyebrow.  "You can't just read my mind..."

"--and tell you what you're thinking?" Shannon asked, tossing me another one of those little amused looks over her shoulder.

"Oh," I said.  She laughed aloud, sounding almost intolerably smug.  "Well, you said telekenisis, too -- can't you just move something, instead of reading my mind?"

"Books!"  Shannon exclaimed suddenly.  I shrugged.

"Well, yeah, books would work, just so long as--"

"No, Watson!" Shannon said, shaking her head.  She waved a hand at all the numerous hardbacks lining the shelves.  "Books!" she said.  I blinked, then understanding dawned.

"Does it matter which one?" I asked, already moving to the shelf to sort through the books.

"Not really; pick something you don't think I'll know well enough to recite."  Shannon flashed me an almost predatory smile.  "We'll make a believer of you yet, Watson!"

"Let's see this," I said.  I grabbed a book, something picked at random.  I threw myself into a chair and Shannon took the one across from me. 

"Pick a page and read it," Shannon directed, slouching back in her seat and closing her eyes.  "Go slowly, and concentrate on what you read."  I nodded, then realized her eyes were shut and replied aloud in the affirmative.  This was, to put it blandly, going to be _very_ cool.  Sing-song thought:  My best friend is psy-chic, my best friend is psyyy-chic!  I looked down at the book, feeling excitement building in my chest.  

I flipped the book open to a random page, smiling when I saw what I'd picked. "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost -- one of my favorites, by my all-time favorite poet. I knew a few of his poems by heart, but this wasn't one of them.  I read each line carefully, concentrating on the words, and when I finished, I looked up at Shannon. She was frowning prodigiously, empty teacup in her hands.  I started to say something, but she shook her head at me -- amazingly well timed, considering she still had her eyes closed.  I grinned at the thought, and then yawned impressively.  After tonight, I wasn't going to hear a word in class tomorrow.  Not that it mattered...  I waited.

And waited.

"I'm not sure," Shannon said after a long, long moment, "what you read."  And when she opened her eyes and looked up at me, she seemed puzzled.  I frowned.

"You're not getting anything?" I asked, feeling suddenly downcast.  She shook her head, and the elation flooded out of me.  I tried not to look as disappointed as a felt.  "So maybe it's just that the experiment's bad?" I suggested, sounding more hopeful than I felt.  She shook her head.

"I don't understand it," she said slowly.  "I can always pick things up so clearly, and then... this.  It's like..."  she trailed off, rubbing at her temples with pale, tired fingers.

"It's okay," I said.  "Maybe it's just something you can't control."  She looked up at me, eyes flashing.

"Don't patronize me, Watson," she snapped.

"Don't talk to me about patronization!" I said just as quickly.  It was like she'd set spark to a brush fire beneath me; I was suddenly blazing, with all the passion that a hard day and sleep deprivation can beget. "_You're _the one who won't tell me anything!" I yelled.  "You go around spouting crap about legacies and powers, but all I've seen is your amazing ability to lie to me!  You haven't told me jack about what went on this afternoon, and you can't even tell me what I was reading!  You, who come from a family of psychics and witches.  Some kind of magic _you_ turned out to be," I finished, my tone dripping sarcasm.  It all flooded out before I could stop it; I was on my feet without realizing it.  Shannon was up, too.

"Fine!" she shouted.  She took a step toward me and forcibly controlled her voice.  "You want to know what went on?" she asked, that dangerous, quiet edge to her voice.  Without waiting for an answer, she told me:  "Her name was Marie Anderson, daughter of the William Anderson who was killed two weeks ago, asleep in bed with his wife.  The thieves went after the broach they apparently saw him take him; it was his wife's thirtieth anniversary gift. 

"Marie saw the killer's face, he saw hers, and so she went to the cops, scared out of her head.  But Marie didn't have a name, so the cops wouldn't do anything about it.  Not a damn _thing_."  Shannon's gray eyes flashed icy blue, and she took a breath before going on.  "She came to me, but it was too late; she was stabbed in the street at two this afternoon, walking home from work behind the Second Street Denny's. She never got a chance to identify the guy who got her father, and then the bastard got her, too.  I couldn't do anything about it."  She swallowed, her eyes still locked on mine.  "And the broach, the goddamn broach the killer was after in the first pace, turns out it was only a bunch of brass and cube-zirc after all."

I stared at her, horrified, the anger all gone out of me.  She'd gone two shades paler out of sheer rage, and even though she'd shoved her hands in her pockets, I could still tell they were shaking.  She was shaking all over.  I'd never seen her so torn up -- the amazing, unflappable Holmes looked like she was about to cry.  A sick, dizzy feeling was rising in my stomach.

"God, Shannon. I'm--" I started.

"Yeah, you're sorry."  She spat the words like a curse.  "Well, don't be.  You don't want me to patronize you, then I _won't_."  She growled the last of it and turned her back on me, stalking over to the desk.  "Don't tell me you're sorry," she said again, softer this time but just as angry. She stood staring at the softly glowing computer monitor for a long moment, then sat down in the chair -- just sort of buckled, like her knees had been knocked out from under her, and fell into the seat. Her back to me, she bowed her head.

I stood, torn and miserable and suddenly tired again, bone-deep and weary tired.  I wanted to go somewhere and sleep until all this went away, but at the same time, I felt something aching, towards the back of my chest, like someone were tugging at part of me.  Tugging me toward Shannon.

"I'm sorry," I said, and that time she let me say it.  I walked over, standing far enough behind her that she wouldn't feel crowded.  I stifled the impulse to hug her; she'd hardly ever let me, or anyone else for that matter, touch her -- something like a pat on the shoulder was intimate by her standards.  So I just stood there, in silence, until--

"I know," she said.  As close to a thank you as she ever got, and it was enough.  I wondered what she must be thinking; she was tired, stressed, angry, embarrassed.  After spending all night, literally, trying so hard to prove she was strong and trustworthy and full of powers and history and God-knows-what-else, I couldn't imagine how she had to be feeling.  I didn't know whether she could read minds or not, but right then, I wished, for the both of us, that she could.  If what I wanted was to curl up and sleep, she probably wanted to crawl somewhere and die.  Thoughts of a soft bed almost had my eyes closed before the thought, small and insistent, started seeping into my thoughts--

"Where are you going to sleep?" I asked her.

"My bed," she answered vaguely.  I shook my head.

"Mrs. H may work wonders with carpet, but there's no way she can have gotten your bed clean by now."  I wondered why I hadn't thought of it the first time we separated for bed.  Whoo.  Bed.  Looong overdue, thank you.  Shannon can't sleep in hers because it's bloody, because Marie-Somebody died in it today... I shuddered, deciding to save that for later contemplation.  Going to be hard to get back to sleep, I decided with a sinking feeling.  Going to be dead tomorrow, yup...

"...on the chair," Shannon was saying when I managed to focus myself enough to listen.  I snorted.

"You're sharing my bed, and that's all there is to it," I announced.  I would have sworn she blushed, and I hoped my tone had sounded dire enough that she wouldn't argue.  I turned and headed for my room.  To my satisfaction, I heard her following after a moment, clicking off the lights.  I crawled under the covers, rolling over on my side to give her room.  After a long hesitation, Shannon slid in next to me, still in all her clothes, still with her cuffs buttoned.  She kept herself pulled away, not even brushing me with her shoulder.  I sighed; she was still so paranoid around me.

But at least she wasn't sleeping sitting up, I reminded myself.  _4:17 AM_ the glowing green letters on my alarm clock told me.  I closed my eyes and before I knew it, I was asleep.

And then, just a moment later, I woke again to hear Shannon speaking.  She'd said, her voice quiet and pale, "And on a day..." and then she'd trailed away strangely. I almost thought she'd fallen asleep, or that maybe I'd dreamed it, when she started again.  "And on a day we meet to walk the line, and set the wall between us once again."

"We keep the wall between us as we go," I mumbled automatically, and it only took me half a heartbeat to place the lines.  "Mending Wall," I said sleepily, feeling myself starting to smile despite the hour.  "It's my favorite poem... Didn't think you knew Frost."

"I don't," she said softly.  Her tired tone held an undercurrent of triumph, and I believed her, of course, but it took me a second to figure out what she was getting at.  When it all clicked, I started laughing silently in the dark.  Frost.  It was Frost -- not what I'd read, but certainly something I'd thought of.  And here she was, quoting lines. The thrill it sent through me was almost enough to wake me all the way up again.  Almost, but not quite.  Still, the stomach-butterflies were back in business.  This meant--  

"It's not proof," she said.

"But it's a start," I said.  And it was sometime after I said it that Shannon stopped trying to make herself disappear; we fell asleep with our backs pressed together.

*          *          *

_Before I built a wall I'd ask to know_

_What I was walling in or walling out,_

_And to whom I was like to give offence._

_Something there is that doesn't love a wall,_

_That wants it down._

_--Robert Frost, "The Mending Wall"_


End file.
